The Arc of Trump

Sometimes you can tell you’re dreaming, because you notice that something you are seeing, or something you are doing, is impossible. The Tibetans teach you to stimulate this kind of observation by asking yourself, while wide awake, “Am I dreaming?” They say you develop the habit, and it creeps into your dreams, and then you look around, and you notice, for example, that the sidewalk you are walking on is made of transparent glass, which is clearly not reality, and you think, “Ah, I must be dreaming. Incredible dream sidewalk.” Or you wake up. A year ago, if you’d dreamt of Donald Trump in the Oval Office, signing legislation under the Great Seal of the United States, you might have awakened your bed partner, laughing. That wouldn’t happen today. You would wake up in a cold sweat, in the grip of a prophetic nightmare. Nor could your bedmate offer real comfort — a dread chill would settle over your soul, and the long months of uncertainty from now until November of this year would become a purgatory of anxious waiting, hope and fear. We’ve crossed over into the borderland of a collective dreamworld. The impossible is now likely. What formerly seemed impossible, now seems fated in some noir reality.

There is no doubt that Mr. Trump is delusional. It has been some years since I realized that great wealth transfers almost always result from extortion tactics, not productive exchanges. Trump’s “Art of the Deal” approach to life was recently extolled in an op-ed by some farsighted Republican toady with mainstream credentials. According to this inveigling soul, “The Art of the Deal” showcases a mind that is apt, sharp, clever, cutting, incisive, demanding, and brooks no interference from lesser minds; therefore, he can maybe “do the job.”

Yes, but what is “the job?” Since Ronald Reagan was able to do it, and George W. Bush, it cannot be that difficult. Reagan is endlessly extolled for a Presidential performance that was eighty-percent posturing and twenty percent senility. Those who still express respect for George W. Bush, in whatever private place one performs that antisocial ritual, no doubt were simply won over by his ability to make it seem like he was “doing the job,” when he was actually just checking in with Dick between bike rides and shit. “The job” ostensibly involves being able to converse easily with high dignitaries of other nations, but George Herbert Walker Bush passed out and puked in the lap of the Prime Minister of Japan at a state dinner, so this requirement can obviously be fudged.

Pundits will compose lists of Presidential Qualifications, and then they’ll compare Trump’s qualifications with Hillary’s on a chart that excludes Bernie Sanders, because three would not be a lucky number for either Hillary or Trump. Trump will not have any of the qualifications and so, the pundits hope, like witch doctors concocting a particularly noxious spell, Trump will not be able to win. After Trump won the Indiana primary in early May, the Washington Post broke out in commentaries by pundits giving Hillary tips on how to avoid being mugged by Trump and his thuggish tactics. One guy was fretting about the situation like Hillary was Little Red Riding Hood, and Trump was the Big, Bad Wolf. If pundits populated the Electoral College, Trump would not have a chance.

But the Electoral College is stuffed with Political Animals and superdelegates,the Killer Klownz of our political universe. Every four years they come down in their spaceship and carry off any real candidates, leaving behind pod Presidents who rule over us and farm us as a food source. The experiment with Trump is a novel one. Pure wish fulfillment is all that is offered. No concrete policies, no promises of shit. Just the privilege of Riding with The King.

“Riding With The King”
by John Hiatt

I dreamed I had a good job and I got well paid I blew it all at the Penny Arcade A hundred dollars on a kewpie doll No pretty chick is gonna make me crawl

Get on a TWA to the promised land Every woman, child and man Gets a Cadillac and a great big diamond ring Don’t you know you’re riding with the king?

He’s on a mission of mercy to the new frontier He’s gonna check us all on out of here Up to that mansion on a hill Where you can get your prescription filled

Get on a TWA to the promised land Everybody clap your hands And don’t you just love the way that he sings? Don’t you know we’re riding with the king?

Riding with the king Don’t you know we’re riding with the king?

A tuxedo and shiny three-thirty-five You can see it in his face, the blue never lie Tonight everybody’s getting their angel wings And don’t you know we’re riding with the king?

I stepped out of Mississippi when I was ten years old With a suit cut sharp as a razor and a heart made of gold I had a guitar hanging just about waist high And I’m gonna play this thing until the day I die

Don’t you know we’re riding with the king? Don’t you know we’re riding with the king? You’re riding, you’re riding with the king You’re riding, you’re riding with the king

Riding with the king Don’t you know we’re riding with the king? Riding with the king, riding with the king